Chapter Five

Gwenn woke abruptly. Her linen nightgown was drenched with sweat, for in her dreams she had been reliving the nightmare chase through the streets. She lifted her thick plait of hair from the back of her neck, grateful that her grandmother had kept a candle lighted in their bedchamber. It was a luxury she usually denied them on the grounds of expense.

Gwenn shifted in her narrow cot, half afraid to recapture sleep, for that way lay terror. Even now her heart was pumping. She pressed hot, tear-stained cheeks into her bolster to try and cool them, trying to move as little as possible in the hope that her grandmother would think she was asleep. Gwenn knew Izabel had been upset by her weeping, and did not want her to know she was wakeful. Once, with a rare flash of humour, her grandmother had said that Gwenn slept so soundly she would sleep through the Last Judgement. But not tonight.

There had not been a precise moment when Gwenn had realised that her mother’s relationship with Sir Jean was unorthodox. Realisation had come in slow stages. Izabel had guarded her closely, almost jealously, not permitting her to mix with other girls in the town, and this, Gwenn now realised, had kept her unaware of the townfolk’s hostility for much longer than would otherwise have been the case. At the time, Gwenn had assumed that Izabel disapproved of the other girls, had thought them not worthy friends for her. Then had dawned the day when, like today, she had escaped for a couple of hours on her own. She had befriended Lucia. Lucia lived in the house opposite and they had played happily until Lucia’s mother had appeared and dragged her daughter away. And the next time Gwenn had seen her playmate, and had smiled at her, Lucia had looked at her with glassy eyes and turned her face aside. There had been other, similar, incidents, which Gwenn had never liked to examine too closely, but the violence that had flared up today and the consequent chase through the streets forced her to face it squarely. Gwenn had spoken to her mother, and Yolande had at last admitted that she was St Clair’s mistress. She had admitted that she and her family were outcasts. They were undesirable, and were reviled more than the lepers that begged for alms at the town gates, for the lepers were given pity at least. Gwenn had not seen much pity in the eyes of the mob that had hounded her and Raymond through the streets. The tears welled again.

Izabel thought her granddaughter was safely asleep. Hoisting herself out of bed, the old woman set the candle in the middle of the floor and crept to the stool in front of her mirror. A gigantic, misshapen shadow travelled with her across the limewashed plaster walls. The candle flame, nudged by draughts drifting in through chinks round window and door, made the shadow jerk and twitch as though it was palsied. Izabel cocked her head to one side and listened. All was silent, both inside the house and out.

On hearing Izabel rise from her pallet, Gwenn stayed quiet, unconsciously waiting for the familiar grating sound which would signify that the chamber pot was being pulled out from under Izabel’s bed. Moments later, when the scraping sound did not come, Gwenn peered across the room. What was her grandmother doing?

Izabel was quietly clearing her brush and hairpins from the top of her coffer. With both hands on the lid of the chest, she took a deep breath and heaved. The trunk opened reluctantly, for Izabel’s arms were losing their strength and the coffer had been hewn from solid oak. The old woman was short of wind by the time the lid was resting back against the wall. She fished about inside, and drew out some cloth. She began to hum softly, and then ceased abruptly, seeming to wink at the dusk-shrouded figure that was her reflection in the mirror. ‘I’m putting my house in order,’ Izabel murmured and smoothed out the cloth.

What was her grandmother doing?

The piece of cloth was sailcloth, which Izabel had obtained from a fisherman on one of the quays. Pushing stiffly to her feet, she hobbled to the alcove and picked up her icon.

Gwenn kept very still.

‘This,’ her grandmother muttered with a sidelong glance at Gwenn’s pallet, ‘will be my legacy to you, Gwenn. This will keep you safe. Raymond does not need it. Boys are tough. They look after themselves. It’s the girls who are defenceless, left to suffer...’ The old woman blinked away a tear. ‘If only I’d told your mother about the gemstone sooner. She need never have become St Clair’s mistress, need never have sold her soul. I failed her, but I shall put it right, I shall not fail you.’ She wrapped the statue in the sailcloth.

Miserable but burning with curiosity, Gwenn could contain herself no longer. She pushed back her covers and sat up. ‘Grandmama, what are you mumbling about?’

‘Gwenn! You’re awake!’

Gwenn rubbed eyes that were hot and puffy with too much crying. ‘Aye. What is it, Grandmama? Are you unwell?’

‘My thanks, Gwenn, but I am quite well.’ Dropping her burden in the coffer, Izabel closed the lid. She crossed the chamber and levered herself onto the edge of Gwenn’s mattress. Gwenn heard her joints creak. ‘It is you I’m concerned about. Do you feel better?’

Dipping her head, Gwenn lied. ‘Yes. I’m sorry I cried. I hope I didn’t upset you, Grandmama.’

Her grandmother patted her hand. ‘It was an unnerving experience.’

‘Grandmama, you don’t understand. I was frightened by the mob – actually, I was terrified out of my wits – but it was the hatred in their voices when they cursed Mama that shook me most. I had my suspicions we lived under some sort of a cloud, but I had no idea that most of Vannes disliked us so intensely. Father Mark has always been kind to us, and I know Mikael Brasher likes Raymond. Raymond is always talking about Duke’s Tavern.’

‘But you did have suspicions?’

‘Aye. I’ve read about liaisons like Mother’s and Sir Jean’s with Raymond. Our tutor explained–’

‘I knew Yolande was making a mistake to have you sit in on Raymond’s lessons!’ Izabel said, scandalised. ‘No good ever came of a girl learning to read and write! I shall have it stopped at once. I should have thought Father Mark of all people would know better than to corrupt a young girl. Holy Mother, what have you been reading?’

Gwenn smiled and took her grandmother’s hand. She loved Izabel deeply, but she could not resist teasing her. ‘The Bible, Grandmama.’

‘The Bible? You can read Latin?’

‘Father Mark says I’m a better student than Raymond.’

‘Is the Bible all you have read?’ Izabel demanded, frowning. In her mind it was neither necessary nor sensible to teach a girl to read. Few enough men had that skill, and she feared that outlandish ideas might warp her impressionable granddaughter’s mind. The scandal of Heloise and her teacher Abelard loomed like a dreadful warning in the old woman’s mind.

‘I’ve read other writings too, Grandmama,’ Gwenn said. Izabel made a clucking sound with her tongue. Swallowing down a giggle, Gwenn could not resist adding, ‘But it was the Bible that taught me about fornication and adultery.’

‘That’s enough, Gwenn!’ Izabel clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Enough!’

‘My apologies, Grandmama. What I’m trying to tell you is that I knew about mother being a concub–’

‘Don’t say that word.’ The old woman stopped Gwenn’s mouth with her palm. ‘We must pray that God in His infinite mercy will forgive your mother.’

‘You sound as though you doubt that, Grandmama.’

Silence.

‘Grandmama?’ Conscious of a disrespectful desire to shake her grandmother, Gwenn laced her fingers tightly together and lowered her voice to a whisper, for she did not want her mother disturbed. ‘Grandmama, I would like to understand something.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Why is it us they turn on?’

‘Us?’

‘The women of the family.’